


The Wheel Is Spinning

by Aurora Cee (SC182)



Series: A Sleep With No Dreaming--Dollhouse AU [3]
Category: Dollhouse, Fast and the Furious Series, Joyride
Genre: Bad Science, Character(s) of Color, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/Aurora%20Cee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Luke Hobbs, formerly of DSS, joined the Dollhouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wheel Is Spinning

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This a continuation of the Dollhouse!verse, featuring the one and only Luke Hobbs. Or, Hobbs's reasons for not working a desk job. 
> 
> Title inspired by the [Foo Fighters's Pretender](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBjQ9tuuTJQ).
> 
> Spoilers: Through Fast Five, Dollhouse episodes “Briar Rose” and “Omega”, and general spoilers for Joy Ride. This is a prequel to [The Places You'll Go](http://archiveofourown.org/works/375510/chapters/612592).
> 
> Warnings: Mature themes and language, strong sexual content, violence, references to explicit torture and sexual assault, dub-con and prostitution.
> 
> Disclaimer: Property of Universal, Justin Lin and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.

Being a soldier was in Hobbs’s blood. From the moment he entered this world, his feet had been pointed forward with his back straight and a sense of duty saturating each breath; all of which before he could stutter out A-B-C-1-2-3. All of these marking his soul like the scent of gun oil forever staining his palms.

But the logistics of what he was born to do and what he was currently doing were definitely at odds. Given the fancy envelop sitting on Hobbs’s lap, no one had informed Uncle Sam of that little tidbit of information.

He’d just been handed his walking papers, or not quite walking papers, as he’d be down for at least six months between surgeries and PT and the endless stream of conferences and committees he would be forced to sit through. He didn’t expect thanks--never had, really, had just expected more than this since it was _his_ team had been put through the meat grinder.

Someone had fucked up. Big time. The only explanation for his team being wiped out on what should have been a routine snatch and grab MOUT in Rio de Janiero.

Hobbs had done his due diligence, had studied the intel, conferred with his team, and had even played nice yet cautious with the locals, and still, here he was while the rest of his team had been shipped back in government issue metal coffins.

A leak, he’d told them, it had to be goddamn leak. Because everything about his team from Fusco’s electronic surveillance to Macroy’s steady trigger finger to Neves’s thorough search for contacts and network tracing had been sound. There were no holes in their boat, just a sea of sharks waiting to devour them should they capsize. And this time, they didn’t just capsize, they got blown to hell and back. Lucky him being the only one left to tell the tale.

The _lucky one_ was what _they’d_ been calling him. The collective _they_ , made up of DC foreign affairs armchair quarterbacks and Ivy League bureaucratic James Bond worshiping toadies, could kiss the shiny metal bits holding together his still as of yet spectacular ass. The way Hobbs saw it: a couple of busted joints—his knee and hip, and his mending guts that had done their best to make an external appearance, were a small price to pay for justice.

Until Rio, he and his team had never lost a man.

Post Rio, he lost six good men while a world class douchebag got away to live up another day of sailing the seas on his blood money yacht and showered in riches tainted in blood, sweat, and human misery. The scent of blood that weaved through Hobbs’s consciousness had nothing to do with workings of the hospital.

Luke Hobbs had sworn an oath to protect and serve the innocent by catching the guilty and bringing them to justice. Though he’d promised to protect people, this was another example of why he didn’t often like people or the systems they built to unnecessarily complicate matters that could always be distilled to pure black and white.

The envelope was full of instructions, beginning with the schedules of his official debriefings. The unofficial ones had taken place between his bouts of consciousness after he’d been patched up in one of Rio’s Level One trauma centers. The flight back to Bethesda was long and muffled by the cotton-haze of strong analgesics. But Hobbs had talked to the DSS investigator team, giving them every detail. Had surrendered every gory second that he remembered between wheels down, the ambush, and the lopsided heavy artillery fire fight in the heart of the favela.

Had any of those details mattered?

Not at all.

According to the papers stacked across his blankets, still speckled with what he suspected to be Jell-O stains, he wasn’t completely out of DSS but he wasn’t a full-service member anymore either and wouldn’t be after being served up like a tempting fatted cameo-toting calf for sacrifice to slavering bureaucrats. They’d just started racking him over the coals and turning the loss of good men into fodder for thirty second sound bites for tv talking heads who had more hot air than Hobbs had muscles.

Christ on a cracker, he was tired.

This limbo was a privilege, he supposed.

From the quiet of his sickbed, he existed as not disavowed but not quit officially retired either, just inactive for now. Hobbs could already see the course this adventure would take. Maybe seven months from now, he’d be swept out of DSS officially with stamped papers and few rounds of stiff handshakes. But he would know that his exit started here, in a hospital bed with few visitors and fewer options on the boob tube.

God, he hated television, too.

And retirement?

He was already caught between four walls with a window that opened to thin air and the narrow strip of grass and concrete leading into the mouth of the hospital. So his feeling trapped was only natural. Trussed up and immobilized with pins, braces and stitches; if he so much as thought too hard, he would pop something and would be forced to remain in traction and bed-bound for who knew how long.

Fifteen years, he’d given in the service of his country. In return, he got a trip to the naughty corner and goddamn pat on the head for someone’s colossal fuck up. Seven months from now, he would be a citizen again, free to haunt the Beltway, looking for contractor work or if the needle-nosed paper-pushers’ nudge was strong enough, then taking a permanent visit with his mother and her two corgi’s, Semper and Fi, along the Redneck Riviera and learning to play golf. He hated golf.

Did he look like the type to play golf? He could probably snap a driver in half with just a flick of his eyebrow.

He ran a mental inventory of the sitrep and it wasn’t coming up roses:

Job gone bye-bye, a definite.

Having insufferable pricks in his face in the foreseeable future, a given.

Being forced to prematurely retire to Florida and compete with two blue ribbon champions for his mother’s love and attention, God help him,

A slow agonizing death at the hands of an endless loop of Sham-Wow infomercials, an inevitable cruel torture.

 

At least Old Yeller got a bullet. What Hobbs was getting was far less humane.

There was a knock at the door then.

Hobbs wasn’t expecting any visitors nor did he want any, but given the solitary state of his confinement, he took the gamble and barked, “Come in,” at the closed door.

He knew it was a woman by the steady tip-tap of her heels against the linoleum. Her stride was even and sufficiently relaxed, not hurried or rhythmically clipped like someone used to darting off to the next hub for Beltway movers and shakers to wheel and deal. Even without seeing her, he knew she wasn’t a Beltway gopher and doubted that she was political viper; though upon her entering his line of sight, he reassessed that latter thought and put more weight on the viper angle. Whose, he couldn’t be sure.

“Mr. Luke Hobbs,” she stated, because she knew who he was and was already proving that she wouldn’t bullshit him or waste his time. “If you are amendable, I would like a few moments of your time.” She said in a soft British accent.

“You’re in luck, my social calendar appears to be wide open, ma’am.” Hobbs gestured at the seat beside the foot of his bed that had last been occupied by the second member of a two man team who’d wanted explicit details on the manner in which his team members had died. He’d provided answers, sure, and made it clear by the nail-spitting set of his jaw that the details were best left inside the pages of the soon-to-be redacted file. Funny, the conversation had thinned from there.

The woman took a seat with such fluid grace that he found himself mimicking her erect posture despite his mechanical limitations. She was the type woman that the word _Lady_ was reserved for. The type that could make anyone sit up as soon as she entered a room and listen, because she inevitably had something important to offer. The soft quirk of her lips told him that he wasn’t the first to get this read on her.

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Hobbs.” She said as she rested her knotted hands on her knee. “One can’t be too sure when they are imposing on someone when they currently engaged in being healed.”

“If I had my way, I’d already be out of this bed, doing PT and hobbling around on crutches if necessary, but some choices we just don’t get, _ma’am_.” The honorific being dropped deliberately as he didn’t have her name.

Rule number one in his field: Always get a name. She looked inclined to give it.

Hobbs didn’t know much about the intricacies of women’s clothing, but this lady wore her sharply tailored suit, cut with rigid pleats and creases that seemed reinforced with metal rather than good old-fashion starch. Her posture so straight and no nonsense that he again found himself intrigued and on the cusp of admiring her.

The introduction came by way of her extending one of her fine-boned pale hands and seeking to shake his. “My name is Adele DeWitt.”

Her hand was small inside his, as most tended to be, and swallowed almost completely by his massive mitts, Hobbs found that they were sturdy, warm, and possessed a grip that belied her frail elegance.

“Alright, Ms. DeWitt.” There was no ring on her left hand. No impression or discolored band cutting across her skin to show that there had ever been one. “I’m about to make two assumptions here, even though our conversation has barely started.” She indicated he could proceed by a slight dip of her chin.

Hobbs used his fingers to tick off his points. “One, I can safely assume you know something about me already, otherwise you wouldn’t have walked in here.” He popped a second finger into action. “And two, whatever you know about me has you interested enough to come a long way to see me. A lady like you doesn’t walk very far in shoes like those unless she's gotta make a point.”

“Correct on both accounts. Admittedly, I am here because _you_ are in need of a job.”

“So the word’s already out?” Red tape could move right along when pushed hard enough, and his team's demise had been the giant catalyst for its momentum.  

“In circles close and far, it would seem. A man of your talents and caliber would be considered a valuable asset to many an organization.”

“And you figured you’d strike while the iron was hot?” He drummed his knuckles over steel immobilizer bracing his knee. “Maybe a little too hot. I won’t be going anywhere for a hot second.” Not until he had more mobility than a Russian bear on a tricycle or had finished being squeezed for information, rung out until he was bone dry and spent.

DeWitt might have been British but she wasn’t working for them now or exclusively trying to recruit him to jump the pond, he believed, or at least not yet. Maybe recruit for an international agency of some sort that was still local.

“We can wait and will gladly do so if your interest is genuine. As I have already said, a man of your skills is worth waiting for.”

“And what skills are you talking about?”

“Your intelligence, your perceptive abilities, your loyalty to your team which has put you on the outs with the DSS uppers, and your desire to save those worth saving. These are all the things we will require of you and you, sir, have them in spades.”

Okay, so she did know him. “Listening.” He made a _go on_ motion with a tilt of his chin and crossed his arms over his chest.

“You wouldn’t be in the field per se, more of a handler actually. Perhaps guarding vulnerable but talented people.”

“Ma’am, I’m not a babysitter or a bodyguard.”

DeWitt’s small grin was restrained yet amused. “I wouldn’t expect you to be. I need you to be an on the ground tactician and profiler. You will know all of our company’s assets, but your responsibility—your duty will be truly to one.”

“What does your company do?”

“To be frank, we offer comfort. How that comfort is presented is dependent on the client. Our assets facilitate the comfort and ultimately receive equal compensation that is not strictly monetary in nature.”

Her smile grew despite the flattening of his features. His mouth already setting into a grim line, because the implication of her words couldn’t be clearer than a two by four to the face. “Such as? Because it sounds like prostitution to me, Ms. DeWitt, and I’m not the type to look good in purple velour suits.”

“Understandable, Mr. Hobbs. Our actives have usually experienced harrowing circumstances, not unlike yourself, before they come to us willingly. We offer them time and healing in exchange for the use of their talents. When their contracts have expired, they are provided with a service package that will keep them and whomever they choose very comfortable for the rest of their lives.”

“Sounds very _quid pro quo_.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hobbs.”

“What are your expectations? He pointed to his leg. “I’m not up for kicking down doors just yet.”

“I doubt that will be required. Just being in working shape is fine. We can wait for your recuperation if you’re interested in the position.” Meaning good help was hard to find. She removed a folder from her purse. “If interested, I took the liberty of bringing a position description with the salary and benefits included.”

Hobbs scanned the contents of the folder. His eyebrows crept to the ceiling. “That’s a very healthy figure.”

“It is. You’ll work long hours, yes, but the rewards will be handsome and your skills never more appreciated.” She replied.

“There’s always something else. What else do you need from me if I agree to sign on the dotted line? What if I get in and don’t like it, is there an exit that doesn’t include a double tap to the head?”

“There’s nothing as unseemly as that, Mr. Hobbs. You may come and go as long as we come to agreeable terms. As for my expectations of you? I need your loyalty. Not so much to me but your charges. You will protect them at all cost and never forgo that responsibility. Without you, they’d be like sheep in this world, and as a matter of what we do, they will encounter wolves. Your duty will be to bring them back to the flock without any bites.”

Hobbs considered his future. He’d never been one to compete for attention and he certainly was not as cute as two fuzzy, fat corgis, and him in shirtsleeves working nine to five would be ridiculous.

“Let me check it out and I’ll let you know.”

“Mr. Hobbs, on those terms I can agree.”

* * *

 

Hobbs was familiar with Los Angeles enough to know that the final destination of the drive was in the heart of downtown. DeWitt had offered him six weeks to recover before his visit. Hobbs had taken three and a half. The dull pace of recuperation and the general lack of anything to do other than answer questions that he had previously answered or answer questions that he did not want to answer gave him the motivation to will himself into better condition.

Nearly four weeks to the day that DeWitt had visited, Luke hopped a red-eye flight to LAX in a long knee brace and willed his gait into a smooth cadence through sheer force of will and the weight of expectation pulling him west.

The crisp sunshine was a welcome alternative to the claustrophobic chill in the D.C. air. Or, maybe that hint of frost was just the reception he’d received from any of the bureaucracy boys or politicos ready to lay blame at this feet. Either way, L.A. was shaping up to be aces.

The pair of suits responsible for shuttling him around for his visit were familiar. Not that Hobbs knew them in any vague way, he just took one look at them and read them for what they were: ex-military and ex-fed. Quite a pair to have on staff.

The escort said nothing as they turned off S. Figueroa into the gleaming steel and glass bosom of the financial district. Spiraling condos and financial towers all looked like metallic candles atop of God’s birthday cake. The view did not last as they drove down into the mouth of a subterranean garage and lower still through its deeper levels.

They exited the black SUV and crossed the lot to a nondescript door. Along the way, Hobbs made note of discretely positioned cameras and suited figures that minimized the number of obstructed sight lines to a minimal. He was almost impressed.

“This way, sir,” Ex-Military said and Ex-Fed followed at Hobbs’s back.

The hall was short—quiet, without any windows to serve the purpose of keeping prying eyes out and unwanted attention from getting undue access. Once through the second door, they entered into sleek lobby that appeared very apropos for a build like this. The receptionist was attractive and smiled confidently as the trio approached.

“Welcome, Mr. Hobbs. Please proceed to the elevator to left and continue up to Ms. DeWitt’s office. She’ll be waiting for you.” She pointed to the elevator bay just as one arrived and retracted its doors to reveal its glass maw.

The quiet and the precision repeating throughout this visit would have unnerved other men. “Thanks, ma’am.” Hobbs replied, giving the receptionist a polite, equitable smile.

The ride up offered an unabashed view of the city. The sunlight entered the elevator filter through the depths of impact glass and high resistance surfactant. To general observation, the view was pleasant, stating the obvious wealth of the company to afford such as view while also subtly implying that the pretty modernist trapping weren’t just a show of décor, but a subtle warning that all the pretty could just as easily keep one in as out.

Again, Hobbs was impressed.

When the elevator stopped, Hobbs expected another empty waiting room to greet him; instead he was surprised to see Ms. DeWitt standing front and center before the open elevator door.

As soon as he stepped off the elevator, they shook hands and DeWitt leveled a grateful yet dismissive glance at the suits in the elevator. “That will be all gentlemen, thank you.”

“Ma’am,” the paired said in unison and disappeared as the doors rolled silently shut.

Then they were walking through another modernly designed receiving area and down another hall to a pair of heavy wooden doors.

“I trust your trip wasn’t too hard on your injuries, Mr. Hobbs?”

“No Ma’am, the trip was a smooth one.”

“I was surprised when you contact me so soon. I believed your injuries to be more extensive at the time of our meeting. I hope you have not rushed yourself on my account.”

“Honestly, Ma’am, I can say that I'm healed enough to be standing here without complaining and my curiosity has an insatiable appetite.”

DeWitt’s stride was remarkably smooth despite the towering height of her pointed heels. The brazen red soles were significant, Hobbs did know, even if the designer was lost on him. Despite the precarious width of the heel, her steps were sure and fluid and so deliberate as she stepped to the heavy wooden winged doors, opened them and bid him enter.

Hobbs noticed two things upon his entry: the view and the tall redbone gentleman observing said view.

DeWitt shut the doors and walked towards the large heavy desk taking up much of the back wall. She seemed to fit well within the mixture of utilitarian and conservative fixtures within the office, somewhat reinforcing Hobbs’s initial assessment of her direct and tailored persona.

“Mr. Luke Hobbs, this is Mr. Boyd Langton, Chief Security Officer for this facility.”

“Mr. Langton,” Hobbs acknowledged and shook his hand as other man said, “Mr. Hobbs.”

Hobbs took a seat at the DeWitt’s urging. “Mr. Langton, will explain our hiring process.”

There must have been contention regarding those details of the process as far as Hobbs could tell by the slight downward tilt of Mr. Langton’s mouth. “Much like any position requiring top clearance, we vet you, undertake interviews with acquaintances, job history exploration, service record research, because we pay our staff for two things: their skills and discretion. Both are summarily required in equal measure.”

Just as Hobbs had expected.

“—Once you’ve passed the qualification standards and the psychological evaluation, all prospective staff are given a contract outlining their professional responsibilities, active salary and benefits, as well as post-employment compensation upon the contract's end or employment-ending termination. We also discuss the consequences of violating the terms and conditions of employment with this organization.”

Hobbs did crack a small smirk at the phrase _terms and conditions_. “ So is this the part where you _do_ say that blowing the whistle or yapping to the wrong parties gets you taken out back and shot?”

Ms. DeWitt laughed and not the posh BBC, rich British lady demure tittering either. She unleashed a moderately restrained belly-splitter. “No, Mr. Hobbs, no one gets taken ‘around back and shot’.” She parroted without going full tilt on mocking. “No, much like the government, we can make a man or destroy him with just a few words to the right people listening.”

“Have you had to do that much?”

Mr. Langton answered. “Fortunately, there have been other ways of resolving dissolved contracts. Director DeWitt feels that given your previous interview and your professional experience, that the intake process can be expedited should you be interested in going forward.”

“So our conversation wasn’t just a conversation. You were actively reconning me. Were you military, Ms. DeWitt?”

“No, my duties have never officially included the military.”

“Well, I think you should have been.”

Mr. Langton removed a nondescript black portfolio from DeWitt’s desk and handed it to Hobbs. “I believe you’ve seen the contents inside before.”

It was the contract that DeWitt had given him in the hospital, though there was one obvious change. “That number is new.”

DeWitt rose from her chair smiling, “Yes, we do pay for results and punctuality is a skill that isn’t lost on me.”

The increase in the figure was enticing. “So you gave me the rundown of the normal intake procedures, what am I getting that’s different?”

A look was exchanged between DeWitt and Langton. She turned her gaze back onto Hobbs and spoke. “I’d like you to see what it is that we offer here and how our operatives become functional and then you can make your choice. I want you to be fully informed. Like Mr. Langton, you would be a security officer, specifically the Associate Chief Security Officer as well as an active handler.”

They were giving him a chance to peak behind the curtain, an opportunity lessen any potential buyer’s remorse for signing on to this outfit. He was without prospects as it stood and Hobbs didn’t doubt that either DeWitt or Langton were unware of that fact. So, given where Hobbs found himself we might as well take the peak.

“Sure, boss. Where do we start?”

DeWitt pleased with his answer, responded. “We’ll begin with a trip downstairs and then we’ll introduce you to Lewis.”

* * *

Another trip down the elevator. This time, there was no waiting room to greet them. The doors opened to reveal the soothing sounds of flowing rock ponds and orchestral arrangements. The dulcet lighting reminded Hobbs of the spa he sent his Ma to one Mother’s Day.

The floor plan was open, save for the tall columns isolated to distant corners around the space, all supporting the upper floors that fed into the main area below.

People milled about talking in low voices and smiling at each other. The dress code alternated between business suits for the easily identifiable staff and adult pajamas or yoga gear for the people occupying much of the space. These were the actives.

They reminded him of the bunnies that scampered out on the open field behind his old school—innocent and playful, without knowing the consequences of being captivated by the roadway lights.

“Follow me,” DeWitt ordered. They walked across the floor without disturbing the sedate flow of foot traffic over the shiny wooden paneling. It reminded Hobbs of herding behavior—schools of fish, a colony of rabbits,  a team of cattle; all unafraid and tranquil in their habitat.

Some of the actives waved or smiled at DeWitt as she passed and returned each gesture just as pleasantly. He observed groups actually doing yoga, painting, and coloring. The more he watched, the more the place resembled an adult daycare.

They approached a closed door with a frosted glass window. _Medical_ , it read.

DeWitt knocked lightly and waited for the door to open. A young women opened the door a fraction, then opened it wider, realizing that her boss was standing on the other side. “Director DeWitt,” she said a little breathlessly.

“Hello Ivy, I hope we aren’t too late to join Mr. Thomas’s intake.”

“No-no, not at all. Topher is almost done explaining the procedure.”

“Good, we’d like Mr. Hobbs to see the process.”

Ivy goggled at Hobbs. A reaction that he was often used to. She led them through the exam area and through another door and short stairwell. When they emerged through the second door, Hobbs could see they were on the open bridge of the second floor. Ivy knocked on another closed door and allowed them to enter.

The person speaking at the center of the double rooms stopped speaking upon their entry. “Director DeWitt, what can I—d’you need….um, hi?” The speaker stammered.

“Hello Topher, I’m sorry to interrupt. We wanted to be here for Lewis’s intake.” She regarded a young man sitting on a low black couch with her full attention. “If that is alright with you, Lewis?” Her tone was softer, no less firm than it had been but infused with far more patience. This was how she got her actives to trust her.

Again, Hobbs became curious about all of Adele DeWitt’s potential skills.

“No, that’s okay,” the young man now known as Lewis said. “It’s good to see a familiar face actually.”

“Good,” she said and sat beside him.

Hobbs first impression of Lewis was an understatement of an extremely obvious fact: The kid was beautiful. Absolutely pretty in that glossy designer underwear ad kind of way, except infinitely more alive and beyond the pale sad.

Hobbs was an any opportunity kinda guy. His job hadn’t left him with much time for socializing and the military hadn’t been too keen of knowing what he liked to get up to on his time off, just as long as he didn’t mention it and he didn’t get caught indulging.

He might have been a bit of a dog at heart. Kicking pretty out of bed wasn’t his style. Being pretty got a sweet bod into his bed, but having a little fire under that package, kept it there.

So Lewis? Yeah, the kid—though he was much more of a man than a kid—was stop-you-in-the-middle-of-the-street pretty. But his chemical blue eyes weighed heavy, unforgivably old after having gone through something terrible. People in his field would look at the kid and just know. Know that he’d been in the shit and just empathetically give him space.

The pity, if there had been any that Hobbs had been reserving for himself and his shitty turn, evaporated and shifted completely to this kid. Lewis had been through the shit. Sure, he was alive but only just so, because a body breathing didn’t mean that it was living.

So the other kid—Topher—took control of the room again and resumed his explanation. Topher spoke just as frantically with his hands as he with his mouth. He was an engineer apparently. The hardware in the next room resembled a dentist chair but the support equipment around it was less Dr. Frankenstein’s lab and more Space Odyssey: 2001.

“So, as I was saying, the machine is able to shift your consciousness, meaning everything that makes you, well, _you_ goes into storage and your body is left behind. We take care of your body while your mind, just sorta hangs out—goes on a siesta for a while and when we put you back and then? You’re right as rain. Just a little older and probably feeling better.”

Listening to this guy on the daily had to be exhausting. Mr. Langton’s curt nod to Hobbs indicated that he wasn’t the first to think so and wouldn’t be the last.

“And I won’t remember any of the stuff you have me do?” Lewis asked.

DeWitt answered this time. “No, you won’t remember. Your body may remember some of the training, just muscle memory, yet there’s no need to worry about being exposed to anything life threatening or illegal. We take the safety of our actives very highly.” Now she looked to Hobbs. “That’s why we wanted Mr. Hobbs to see the process and the privilege that we’re extended when persons like yourself offer to work for us.”

Bringing the full weight of that heavy gaze on Hobbs got his back up and his mind shifting to soldering mode, the instinct to protect the helpless clawing at him to do his duty and protect his charge at all costs.

Lewis didn’t say anything to Hobbs, just canted his head in the smallest of nods before looking back at Topher.

“Any questions?” The engineer asked.

Lewis shook his head quietly at first. “What if something happens? Like, what if I can’t come back? What happens then?”

DeWitt patted Lewis's hand, walking a fine line between platonically comforting and maternal. “You can always come back. Being an active is only temporary, you have a life to come back to and we’ll ensure that you do.”

He must believe her. He bobbed his head in an indistinct rhythm, then surveyed the room once more. When he looked at Hobbs, his sad eyes challenged Hobbs to bring him back. A challenge which Hobbs felt compelled to accept.

“No more questions,” Lewis stood from the couch, “I’m ready.”

Topher and Ivy led Lewis into the connected room and the chair at the center of it.

Hobbs hung back with DeWitt and Langton, who presumed correctly that he had questions. He still kept an eye on the progress the engineers made in getting Lewis into the chair.

Hobbs turned to DeWitt, his questions ready and hot for answers. “Ma’am, what’s the story with the kid?”

DeWitt shook her head in obvious disagreement. “He’s not a kid, Mr. Hobbs. Please don’t call him that. Our work is gray enough as it is without adding an additional layer of sordidness to it.” Hobbs nodded and barely restrained making a _hurry up_ gesture to keep her talking. “Lewis has been the victim of a tremendous tragedy, being that his brother and childhood friend were slaughtered by a psychopath and he had the misfortune of not being killed with them.”

“Christ.” Hobbs muttered, trying to imagine what that meant for the ki—for Lewis. Of course he’d seen the shit. He’d been dragged right through it.

“He misfortune was exponentially worsened by being held captive by the same monster that harmed his loved ones, and being held captive by a monster, you can imagine the indignities that he had to suffer and the fact that this person was never found only compounds how precarious Lewis’s situation has become.”

“So you offer him a place to heal physically and a way to forget mentally.”

“They don’t forget.” Mr. Langton asserted, “when the actives are done, they’ll remember who they were and where’ they’ve come from, but they’ll be prepared to move on. It’s like injuring yourself today and waking up with a faded scar tomorrow.”

Living through the pain without the burden of the memory could be a magic bullet to some, especially for those who suffered more from living than while dying.“ And if forgetting doesn’t work?”

“There are contingencies for that, however we only cross that bridge if it approaches and not before. If Lewis fails to improve at the conclusion of his time with us, then he will still be prepared to become anyone and go anywhere we wants.”

“How long is the contract?” Hobbs asked, as he watched Ivy and Topher secure Lewis’s head to the leather support with the electric halo surrounding it.

“Five years.” DeWitt motioned for them to enter the room. She positioned herself at Lewis's lower left side. Mr. Langton remained by the door while Topher gestured for Hobbs to stand up by Lewis's shoulders.

Lewis watched Hobbs approach and didn’t utter a sound.

Topher stood by the back wall with a rectangular box in hand. “Last chance before I put the drive in: d’ya want to keep going?”

Lewis blinked hard and jutted out his chin. He nodded quickly, his nerves running hard under his skin and his blood surging through his throat, and said, “Yes.”

Topher fit the box or cassette or hard drive for people into a slot near the head halo. He pressed one button and the machines around the room began to lowly hum. “Take a deep breath and say goodnight.”

Lewis took that breath and looked up at Hobbs and uttered a soft, “Goodnight.”

Then Topher pressed the other button.

Lewis jerked in the seat, jolted suddenly by the power pouring through the machine. The colors in the halo dulling and brightening until they went as electric blue as Lewis’s eyes. Topher pressed the button again, having reached an acceptable limit on the screens behind him.

Hobbs watched the black box slip free from the machine and enter an empty slot in the wall. A second black box handled by Ivy joined the first and then they disappeared from sight.

Topher handed Hobbs a short sheet of paper with what appeared to be a script. “Follow that,” he instructed and turned towards Lewis who blinked up at the ceiling blankly.

“Lance. Lance. Lance.” Topher spoke softly, carefully watching Lewis’s responses or the lack thereof.

“Did I fall asleep?” The young man asked in a sleepy voice.

Topher nodded with a relieved smile which everyone else around the room seemed to mimic as well. “Yeah, Lance. Time to get up, m’kay.”

“Okay.” Lance said, voice softer and less sure than before. More sheep like and Hobbs thought about those bunnies again and the moment they were hypnotized by the gleam of headlights.

Topher elbowed Hobbs’s side to bring him back to the script or prompt.

Hobbs cleared his throat and looked down at Lance who stared up at him blankly. “Everything's going to be alright.” Hobbs said, so gently the sound of his own voice unnerved him.

“Now that you're here.” Lance replied with a sleepy smile.

 Despite the same face and body, this was not the same man who walked into this building. “Do you trust me?” His breath coursed in and out without pausing. If the kid wasn’t nervous to give up his whole life, then neither was Hobbs in prepping to give it back.

 Lance smiled as softly as a sheep. “With my life.” He could almost hear the wolves approaching with a smile like that.

 Five years. Hobbs could do that.

* * *

 

Later when DeWitt handed him the contract to peruse, he’d said, “Just give me a pen.”

Hobbs had read enough before to know the contract was sound. There were no additional pages added or revisions. He’d never been one to have a problem with following the rules, so he signed on the dotted lines and gave the contract back.

He’d signed on the dotted line for five years.

“Welcome to the Dollhouse, Mr. Hobbs.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. I’m looking forward to the opportunity to serve.” _And protect._

“Indeed, Mr. Hobbs.”

Once again, he was a soldier with a mission.

**Author's Note:**

> Definition: 
> 
> MOUT: US Military term meaning: military operation in urban terrain.


End file.
